


He Could Be

by iniquiticity



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Quid Pro Quo, Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, Light BDSM, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Read Quid Pro Quo Already, Size Kink, The Author Regrets Nothing, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 19:54:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6022732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe later he will think about how Washington can just create kinks for him to be into, more or less at his whims. That's a dangerous power to have over somebody and Alex is, embarrassingly, further turned on by it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Could Be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rillrill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Quid Pro Quo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5880157) by [rillrill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill). 



> Shameless [Quid Pro Quo](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5880157/chapters/13718320) fanfic. I strongly recommend you read Quid Pro Quo. It's a masterful work of filth, characterization, political drama, and amazingness.
> 
> If you do read QPQ, this takes place between chapter 8 (suit shopping) and chapter 9 (frottage). Thanks for QPQ, Liz.

 

*

He thinks he should be more annoyed than he is at the text on his screen asking him if he is available for a late meeting on Tuesday. But it’s his job, and he’s not going to leave if Washington needs him, and if he hasn’t been fired yet, some pointless late weekday is not going to be the thing that gets him there. And he’s sure it’s important, after all, because Washington is important, and even if it seems like he’s wasting his time, he never is. Plus, he realizes, his boss ordering him around is --

He shakes his head. No matter what he felt, there is no way in hell it is his place to step forward no matter how interested his dick is at the future possibilities. His body, stupid thing that it is, has already expressed itself clearly enough. And Washington had pressed against him while he had been wearing that suit, and his ragged breath in his ear -- Alex’s pretty good with social cues. He’s not stupid.

The suit is freshly hemmed and fit to him, so he picks it up Monday night and spends the evening watching Youtube videos of tying tie knots. He does not remember what Washington actually said when the man gave him instructions. He remembers a flurry of hot touches and a voice in his ear and the press of desire against the small of his back.

When he comes in on Tuesday, Lafayette begrudgingly complements him. Even Burr’s eyebrows go up when he sees it.

Frustratingly, Washington barely looks at him in their meeting about the bill and spends most of the time listening to Lafayette, and then Burr, and then one, and then the other, until the two of them are pointedly not glaring at each other, not talking to each other, and not saying anything that isn’t a direct complaint regarding the other’s opinions.

Of course, more sinister are the doubts. Maybe he imagined the whole event in the suit shop, his mind says. Maybe he was just thinking with his dick, and Washington had only been interested in his bodyman looking like a passable member of his staff. What could a man so powerful see in a barely-hired, poorly-shaped personal assistant? _You haven’t done anything._

He simmers about it all afternoon, then further when Washington doesn’t even bother to look at him when he breezes past Alex and into his office. Instead he assigns Lafayette to dump a large stack of work on his desk. At first Alex thinks to complain to the Frenchman, but he’s gone before he can think of what to say. He resigns himself to the pile; Washington wasn’t kidding when he said he’d need Alex to stay late. He had just hoped that this meeting would be …..

 _Stop thinking with your dick_ , he admonishes himself sharply. He takes a deep breath and loses himself in the documents for a while.

His phone beeps some time later, shaking him from his work trance. He glances at it.

_Event Added To Your Calendar:_  
_Name: Meeting_  
_Location: Washington’s Office_  
_Time: 8:00PM_  
_Added by: G.W._

That’s in two hours. He eyes the still-substantial pile.

“Ready…. go,” he says to himself, and sets his phone for 7:55, then completely forgets the universe outside mindless political documents. When it beeps, he’s finished all but the last few papers. Not bad, he thinks, but the rest will have to wait. He turns off the alarm, puts his suit jacket on (why not?), buttons the suggested three buttons, and knocks on Washington’s office door.

“Come in,” Washington’s voice says, from behind the door. Despite his complaints, a dark urge grows in his stomach at the sound of the unconscious command in that voice. He gives himself another mental kick; he can’t be imagining sexual tension every damn time Washington wants him to do something. He’ll go out of his mind in six weeks or less.

Washington is sitting at his desk, looking at him with dark eyes. Studying him. Alex is not used to being seen so intently. He’s much more familiar with not being seen at all. He wonders if Washington can see his completely work inappropriate thoughts, which consume most of his head right now.

“You wanted to see me, sir,” he says. There’s an uncomfortable kind of silence - not just the crackling intensity that he’s become used to when he spends any time around Washington, but also something uncertain. He’s gotten better at reading his new boss, and he’s good at reading people, but the man’s face is inscrutable.

“Come here, my boy,” Washington says. Alex finds his feet hurry to obey faster than the rest of him, leaving his brain quickly behind. At least the jacket hides the little shiver that races up his spine every time the man uses what he might think is a perfectly innocent nickname only to be completely unaware of the things it does to him. Despite that he is now standing and Washington is sitting, he still feels small and off-balance, like this is a test and he doesn’t know how to pass. Even more embarrassing, his cock twitches.

It gets worse when Washington stands. He’s all broad muscles and shoulders, filling Alex’s close view. Washington moves in a deliberate kind of manner, pure power and pure confidence, until he is standing between Alex and the dark polished wood of the desk. He’s a dominating presence, especially this close. Alex is trying very hard to not think about all the things that Washington could do to him this close. He is trying to think about unsexy things, like the ant infestation him and John had last year. That was disgusting. Yes. Extremely awful.

“What can I do for you, sir?” he manages, and his voice comes out extremely even. He definitely is not thinking about things personal assistants should not do with their employers who are United States Senators. The personal assistant is just too much of a bad porn trope. And yet Washington is so very close, and so very real, and so very firm and _commanding_ , consuming the air around him like a flame, and perhaps Washington could take him apart, one finger at a time, until he forgot his own name, and---

He is so very fucked.

He is finding it hard to breathe, standing here in this silence. He feels like he is being strung along, or roasted perhaps, until he pops like a kernel and loses it and sinks to his knees.

Unsexy thoughts, he says to himself. Unsexy thoughts like the massive pile of laundry he has to do. Getting sick after drinking too much at the bar. Really bad old leftovers. He takes a breath to try and clear his head, only instead it’s all Washington’s cologne.

Up until his moment, he has never considered himself a cologne guy, owing to what he guesses are terrible selections by the guys he meets. But Washington -- Washington smells like something dark and mysterious, inky, maybe, and spicy, sharp and overwhelming in the way he always manages to be. Masculine. Somehow, he is reminded of broad muscles flexing under flesh, of what Washington’s bare skin might look like with effort and a sheen of sweat. There’s none of that _I’m dying in cologne_ sense most people give him. He’s dizzy with it. It’s better than any joint he’s ever hard.

He is now a cologne person. He takes another breath of it, trying to make it seem less like taking a hit and more like he just needs to breathe.

As if this meeting has not already been a complete disaster, Washington presses a hand to his cheek, and an involuntary whimper escapes him. The hand seems impossibly large against his skin, rough and warm, fitted perfectly to the line of his jaw, brushing against his stubble. He leans into the touch without thinking, closing his eyes, because his body is the most goddamn disobedient and rebellious thing that there is. It is paralyzed, held in complete thrall by that scent and that touch and those eyes.

“My boy,” Washington says, softly, and the man’s voice is so dark with promise that he can’t suppress the shiver.

He is in hell.

The hand trails down the line of his jaw, over his stubble. Some of it slides away, but two fingers trace down the side of his neck, and the junction of his neck and his shoulder, only to be stopped by the collar of his jacket. It’s like electricity, it’s like acid, it’s like being touched with an ice cube or a hot poker. Maybe this is a dream, he thinks. Maybe this is chapter two in that dream he always has about Washington, and he will wake up in his bed with a throbbing erection and --

An involuntary whimper escapes him.

“Alexander,” Washington says. The dream finally has pity on him, because Washington’s hand withdraws into the pocket of his pants. “I value you immensely. I won’t do anything you don’t want.”

It takes the words a long time to go from his ear, to his brain, be processed, and then to have a response formulated. His mouth hangs open for a few moments with the data delay.

_Touch me, guide me, have me, be with me, use me._

“I don’t know what I want,” his mouth says, without his permission. Washington takes a step back, and Alex is no longer completely consumed by the addicting smell of his cologne.

“You have to give me a straight answer,” Washington says.

“I meant---” He isn’t sure what he meant.

He swallows. Washington’s eyes track his throat as it moves.

 _Jesus, Alex,_ his mind provides, helpfully, _You have spent most of this job not being able to keep your mouth shut and now your dreams are about to come true and you can’t manage three damn words._

_Fuck you,_ he thinks to himself. 

Swallows. Washington is still watching his throat, his eyes incredibly wide and dark.

“I definitely want, sir,” he finally manages, “I want you. To touch me.” His voice sounds high and reedy to his ears, achy. God, Washington’s barely touched him and he already feels wrecked.

“I’m glad to hear that, my boy,” Washington says, and he relaxes a fraction, in a way Alex isn’t sure he would have noticed last week. Those large hands come up again, drawing up the lines of his arms, fingers in the lapels of his jacket, molding to the curve of his waist, which the jacket somehow makes seem less round. He feels _lean_ in it. “I knew this was going to look good on you, but I underestimated how good. The fit is….” He draws a sharp rasp of a breath. “...extraordinary.” His eyes flick up, and then one finger digs into the knot of the green tie. “Nice knot.”

Alex tilts his head back, baring his throat. “Thank you, sir,” he mumbles, “Youtube.”

Washington makes a low chuckle in the bottom of his throat, pulling the knot apart and letting the fabric rest across Alex’s shoulders. The man’s broad, dark thumbs trace the lines of Alex’s collarbones, and he finds himself leaning into the touch before he’s noticed. It’s rough and warm and reminds him of restrained strength. The tip of the iceberg, he thinks. He wonders what it would feel like to have one of those hands wrapped around his throat. He wonders what his breath would feel like, barely allowed to pass under those powerful fingers. The rasp of his life, completely under the other man’s control.

What is his brain doing.

Forget his brain.

What is his _dick_ doing.

In complete ignorance to Alex’s various mental breakdowns, Washington steps around him, until the man, impressive erection and all, is pressed to his back. Those broad hands reach from behind him, fingers sliding under the jacket and pulling it off his shoulders. He can hear the soft sound of fabric on fabric, mixing with his loud breathing.

The air conditioning starts a new cycle, humming to life. The hairs on the back of his neck raise.

He doesn’t look, but he can hear the quiet footsteps. He closes his eyes and he can imagine it in his head; Washington hanging up the new jacket with care, straightening the fabric and the arms of it, brushing any dust or lint off, making sure the item is properly attended to. Then, the footsteps return, and with it the addicting, powerful feeling of the man and the scent of his desire. It’s like the shop, and he did not imagine that, and he is not imagining this. He is not imagining huge hands on his hips and hot breath in his ear. He didn’t know his ears were so sensitive until now.

He’s a cologne and ear guy now.

He can work with this.

He’s no blushing virgin, but somehow Washington makes everything so completely _new_ and _revelatory._

Something warm and wet - it’s his tongue, it has to be - is teasing its way along the ridge of his ear, and when Washington breathes, every breath skitters across newly wet skin. He can’t help but tilt his head back, his mouth falling open with a soft moan. Washington bites the ridge of his ear gently but firmly, just sharp enough that he doesn’t notice the arms wrapping around him (caging him, he’s trapped against this firm body) and going to the first button of his shirt, sliding it apart. Goosebumps raise on his flesh where it’s exposed. Washington removes the second button. The mouth continues to worry his ear.

Something sharp and unpleasant twists, all of a sudden, in his stomach. The hands go for the third button, but Alex’s own come up on top of them, stopping.

The hands still under his own. The mouth at his ear retreats.

The hands find his hips, pulling him to face their owner.

It’s hard to make eye contact. When he finally manages to look, those dark eyes are so completely hungry and needing, wanting him, pupils a dark circle in a thin ring of brown. Washington doesn’t say anything, but his gaze is questioning, despite the lust.

“I…” He looks down at Washington’s shirt. He imagines how the man might look without it on, chiseled stomach and powerful core and all that raw power constrained only by flesh which seems to accent it.

Then there’s him.

“I could lose ten pounds,” Alex finally manages, the humor painfully forced. He knows how he looks without a shirt on, knows the PolitiFact diet and a lack of exercise and one too many beers. He is intimately familiar with the softness of his stomach. He’s not --

He’s no Washington. He’s no Lafayette. He’s not even a John Laurens, for God’s sake.

Washington reaches up and caresses his face, strangely tender. There’s a lot going on in that gaze. He looks like he is considering some option, and Alex can see the moment he comes to a decision. But instead of saying something, his hands wrap around Alex’s wrists. Alex has to do a double-take, because his own hands look so small in comparison to Washington’s wide, dark fingers, loosely wrapped around him. He couldn’t break that grip if he tried. Something about being held like this makes his blood pound. The sense of being held grips him. He finds that he forgot his original complaint.

Washington moves his hands to the desk, so that Alex is holding onto it behind them. The smooth wood is cool under his fingers, such a contrast from his racing heart.

“Stay,” Washington says, and Alex closes his eyes, because - yes. He can stay. He can be good. He’d do anything for that voice. Then, the man’s hands go back to the buttons on his shirt, removing the rest of them. The shirt can’t come off, not with his hands more-or-less chained to the desk, but it still hangs freely open, only now he is captured here.

Washington’s hands pull the white undershirt from his pants and settle under it, fitting perfectly to his body and running up his stomach, pushing the shirt up as he does. With Alex’s hands glued to the desk, he can’t pull this shirt off either, but Alex has the thought of those hands reaching into the worn collar and ripping the thing off him. Washington would be strong enough to do it, he thinks.

“Shirts off,” Washington says, “Then, hands back on the desk.”

Alex hurries to obey, his previous self-consciousness gone. He has to obey, in some pit-of-your-stomach sense. He is helpless against it.

“You are very beautiful, Alexander,” Washington says, and he steps into Alex’s space, pushing their bodies together and Alex can feel his cock through the fabric, hard against his thigh. He tries to focus on feeling it out, and it’s --

He swallows back the saliva that floods his mouth.

“That’s what you do to me, my boy. So don’t put your body down.”

“Yes, sir.”

Next, those impossibly large hands go to his belt buckle, sliding it open and unbuttoning his pants, pulling them halfway down his thighs. Alex doesn't know what to look at. He's never been the center of anyone's attention like this, not even John, when they were a thing. No, he is the complete focus of Washington's universe right now. A United States senator. Undressing him worshipfully and touching him, leaving pinpricks of heat across his body and filling his brain with a slideshow of filth. Part of him wants to - needs to - do something. Serve this man. Thank him. Touch him, maybe. Bend _himself_ over the desk and let Washington take him however he wants.

But he was told to stay. So here he is, paralyzed under all this heat and attention and want, like lava surging under his skin.

Washington's rough palm strokes against his cock through his boxers. He moans, pushing his hips against it, wondering how that touch can only ratchet him tighter rather than offering some kind of sweet relief.

"I said _stay_ ," Washington growls, his voice soft and dark. He strokes Alex again, harder this time, and the friction of it is more unbearable now that he has to force himself not to grind into it. But Washington seems satisfied with his new obedience, and perhaps as a reward, slides Alex's cock out of his boxers, which stands proud against his stomach, a gleaming spot explaining his desire just as clearly as any words he could use. Washington slides his thumb over the slick head of his dick and Alex's toes curl in his shoes so hard that his calves ache. He squeezes the desk hard enough that his fingers turn white.

 _Be good_ , he thinks to himself, over and over, as that powerful hand touches and teases him, and it really is hell because he is not allowed to push back into it, despite how good it feels, despite how badly he wants it, how much his chest is aching with lust. _Be good, be good, be good, be good._

"That's much better," Washington practically purrs into his ear, and he can't suppress the shudder all the way. He squeezes his eyes shut in preparation to be punished in some manner ( _punished_ , his brain says, with a hot flash of need in his chest like a firework), but if the other man notices, he doesn't indicate it. Instead, he takes a step back, leaving Alex pitifully cold and alone. Alex doesn't bother to bite back to the whimper, standing here mostly-naked, hard and trembling, a prisoner.

"Strip the rest of the way," Washington says, and Alex rips off his pants and shoes perhaps more furiously than a man with dignity should. Fuck dignity. "Very good. You are very pretty."

"Thank you, sir," Alex chokes out. "For you," he adds, without realizing it.

"Yes, for me," Washington agrees, and for what seems like an eternity just works him over with his eyes, staring at the naked form in front of him. Alex can feel his gaze on him like water out of a firehouse, intense and directed at every individual part. Washington looks at his calves and his thighs and his crotch and his dick, against his stomach, his chest and his arms and his neck and his face, and Washington is still completely dressed, his face an opaque mask, while he is ass naked. The only indications the man is carrying of their indiscretions is the bulge in his pants, still mostly hidden by his jacket, still buttoned, the rasping, harsh sound of his breath, and his very, very dark eyes.

Alex has always been a dominate-me kind of guy, as opposed to the ear and the cologne thing.

He bites his lip without thinking, and then bites down harder when he sees those dark eyes watching him. "Sir," he says, finally, in their heavy silence that is not even close to as good as Washington's hands on his body. "Please."

Washington meets his eyes. "Please what?"

Alex's mouth opens and nothing comes out. Washington looks at him, his expression perfectly composed. Like Alex is not naked and hard and desperate and wanting and shaking and trapped against his desk. Like, if he wanted, he could leave this very moment and go sit in on some meeting. Like he could have a discussion with Lafayette about the shutdown and Burr with the press and Alex would still be standing here, completely trapped and unable to do anything about it.

His skin becomes very flushed at the thought of being made to wait so long. It is a completely different type of being invisible. Apparently he's into being invisible now. Maybe later he will think about how Washington can just create kinks for him to be into, more or less at his whims. That's a dangerous power to have over somebody and Alex is, embarrassingly, further turned on by it.

He forces himself back to this very cold, very achy moment. "Anything. Fuck me. Let me suck your cock. Just --- please."

Washington studies him consideringly, folding his arms across his broad chest. Alex's cock twitches, because it's the worst part of him.

"Those all seem like very good ideas," Washington says, and Alex forces himself to only nod a little. "I don't know, though. I'll need more details on what you want me to do. It's very important to be clear about these kinds of things, you know." He idly adjusts the cuffs of his jacket, and Alex's eyes are drawn to the thin tendons in his wrist.

"I...." Alex wrenches his gaze from Washington's arm to meet his eyes again. He licks his lips and takes a deep breath, as if that kind of thing will stop his brain from flashing explicit images on the backs of his eyelids. He knows what Washington wants him to do. He previously wasn't into it, but that hasn't stopped him from being painfully hard about anything else they have done today. See previous note about how it is Washington who decides what Alex is into, apparently, rather than Alex himself. He hasn't decided if that's acceptable yet, but the his body seems to be much more interested in bending to his boss' will than his mind is.

"I want you to fuck me, sir," he starts again, and he swallows, closing his eyes and concentrating on his fantasy. "I want you to bend me over this desk and fuck me until you have to hold me up, because I can't stand on my legs anymore. I want your huge cock inside of me as deep as you can get it. I want you to open me up with your fingers so slow that I can't resist pushing back against you even though I know that's not what you want and you might punish me for it. But I can't stop because I want you so bad. I want you filling me up. I want you so deep inside of me I can't think about anything else. I want a limp so bad that I'm too embarrassed to get out of bed. I want your fingers digging into my hips hard enough that there are bruises that are in the perfect shape of your hands. I want to have to shove my fist into my mouth to stop from shouting your name. I want to have to bite down on my own arm because you're fucking me so hard that my fist isn't enough to muffle me."

He opens his eyes and Washington is staring at him, his mouth hanging half-open.

This is working. Good. He can do this. He's a dirty talk kind of guy, now. Okay. He's temporarily distracted by the sight of those dark lips and the flash of that tongue before he gathers himself back up and resumes that train of thought before it has left the station entirely.

"I want...." He needs momentum. As long as he can start, he can keep going. "I want you inside of me and I'll clench around you, and it'll be so tight, you won't be able to stand it. I'll push back against you, but only so you can get deeper inside of me, claiming me entirely. The way you'll take me won't be anything like anything I've ever had. Nothing can be like your amazing cock filling me up. You don’t even have to let me come.”

"Stop," Washington says, and Alex's mouth snaps shut. He's stepping closer, covering the small distance between them, and reaching to tilt Alex's mouth up to kiss him.

It's a hell of a kiss, all ferocity and heat and pure desire, the kind of kiss that promises domination and power and Alex melts into it, lets that tongue ravish his mouth. He groans when Washington bites his lip, then resumes kissing him with unbridled intensity, so different from his reservedness, standing there as Alex writes his own hardcore porn. Two sides to every man, he's able to think, before Washington reaches down and strokes his cock once, then twice, which promptly wipes his mind clear of anything even remotely resembling higher brain functions. He wants to twist and jerk and grind, but he's still holding on, even if barely, to the man's order. _Stay_.

"You're being very good," Washington says into his ear, and then he bites the lobe of it again. "Very good for me indeed."

"Thank you, sir," Alex says, softly, because this close he's made completely dizzy with Washington's presence, like a drug. The praise doesn't help. He was a praise guy before this, though.

Washington slides his own jacket off his shoulders and leaves Alex against his desk to hang it up. He unknots his tie, then unbuttons his shirt and hangs them both over the rack as well. In just his undershirt, Alex can see the tight muscles of his forearms and the broad strength of his biceps. His wide shoulders slip under the white undershirt and Alex wants to know more. Wants to see the strength barely hidden by cotton and skin. Wants that strength on top of him, all around him, surrounding him. A fresh wave of desire rushes through him, and he clenches his toes until it passes. That’s the best way to resist the urge to sink to his knees right away.

Washington comes back over to where he is manacled to the desk. Washington runs his hands down Alex’s chest again, then across his shoulders, then come to rest on his hips. Alex resists the urge to whine, because it seems he’s been hard forever and the touch is searing with not-enough desire.

“Turn around and bend over, Alexander,” Washington says, his voice hoarse. Alex bites down on his tongue to resist the groan and obeys, because he has to obey. He flattens his stomach against the desk, feeling a little chill at the cold, sleek wood, firm and ungiving. Then, because he is that kind of guy, he takes a step back from the desk, tightening up his back and flexing it slowly, sticking his ass out and making himself as desirable as he can manage. This seems to have the intended effect, based on the sharp rasp of breath he hears behind him.

It’s not the ideal position of someone with tense muscles, but taking care of himself is not his strong forte. He watches with eager eyes as Washington reaches into one of his desk drawers and pulls out lube and a condom, trying not to pant too readily. Washington meets his eyes and doesn’t quite smile; he lets Alex watch as he coats his fingers liberally with lube. Then he walks back out of Alex’s range of vision and stands back behind him, one hand on his ass. There’s the tease of fingers against his entrance which sparks his blood with hot fire, and one of them is pushing into him.

He hisses with the intense sensation of it, the _opening_ of it, and it’s hot and tight and _wonderful_. Washington works on him for a little while, until he’s aching for more, panting into the desk and pushing back slightly, with little rolls of his hips. Washington adds another finger and he bites down on his knuckle to keep from groaning too loudly. It’s unbearably good, pleasurable shocks rolling through his body and to his painfully hard cock, still untouched; it’s worse when Washington twists his fingers and brushes his prostate, and he’s going to have weird bruises on his hand if he can’t stop himself.

Washington takes his time with his fingers, working him over thoroughly, until Alex is whimpering into the soft flesh of his elbow. He needs more. He has already imagined what this might be like, just now, and before this, and he's pretty sure Washington is doing this only to torture him. A small part of his brain flickers to life. What can he do to get Washington to properly fuck him, rather than just make him gasp and moan by reaching so goddamn deep inside him?

He can beg. He is not above begging.

"Sir," he mumbles, pulling his mouth away from his skin, "Please, fuck me.”

There's twist of fingers and Alex gasps out loud.

"What's that?" Washington says from behind him,

Okay. Fine. He can play this game. He takes a deep breath, trying to remember how to speak. It’s a challenge, and one Washington foists on him based on the way he’s fucking into Alex with his fingers hard enough that his skin is on amazing, perfect fire. He likes a challenge. “I need you inside of me. I need you to fill me up. I want to feel you more than this. It's not enough. Fuck me. Claim me. I want to forget my own name.”

Washington grunts and slides his fingers away. The emptiness is terrible, and he pushes back, seeking. At least there are comforting sounds, like the noise of a condom wrapper being ripped, and the sight of Washington leaning over him for the bottle of lube. Alex doesn’t watch, because he likes to torture himself. Instead, he listens to the gentle rattling of Washington’s belt being unbuckled, shivering slightly at the prospect. There’s shifting clothes and then, fucking _finally_ , Washington’s cock is sliding against the crease of his ass, and it feels so big and so warm that he presses back, preparing himself by putting his face back into the crease of his elbow.

The lube-slick head of Washington’s cock pushes against him and in and he’s thick, and fuck, shit, _yes._ He moans low and long into his arm, the stretch just on the pleasurable side of too much. More than that, it’s overwhelming, and shifts to bite down hard on the meat of his palm as Washington pushes in further, and further, and further, and jesus christ, he’s huge.

“Fuck,” he groans.

“Observant,” says Washington, behind him. It would be funnier if the man’s voice weren’t shaking, low and raspy, but Alex chokes out a laugh anyway. He digs his non-muffling hand into the edge of the desk to try to create some leverage to push back against, forgetting the old order entirely in the heat of his pleasure. He’s so full that every time he shifts, there’s a bolt of heat in his stomach, like he’s so completely pinned he can’t go anywhere. He could be into that.

“God, Alexander,” Washington adds, and his hands find Alex’s hips, and he begins to move, and Alex thinks that he might black out from the pleasure of it. He wants to ask for more, wants to beg, wants to demand to be well-used, only he’s sure if he takes his mouth out of the crook of his elbow then he won’t be able to resist crying out. So instead he just concentrates on feeling it, how thoroughly Washington is having him right now. Every thrust is hot and sharp and hard, and it’s made better by the belt buckle that raps, sharp, against his thigh each time Washington moves closer. There’s the drag of buttons and coarse wool against his ass on top of the buckle and the fucking itself, and, oh god, it’s way better than his fantasies. He’s torn between grinding himself up against the desk, his own cock painfully neglected, or pushing back against Washington’s steadily intensifying thrusts. He settles for a little of both, rolling his hips, trying to rub the smooth wood of the desk against his dick and then push into those perfect thrusts.

By some miracle or sheer politeness, Washington’s hand reaches down and wraps around his dick, and he’s not sure how long he’s going to last, not with the man so ruthlessly using him combined with that broad hand against him. He tries to hold back, tries to make himself last, but it’s no use. Not too long after Washington touches him, he’s coming, gasping and shaking as the orgasm pulses through him, notching up the intensity of the sex exponentially. Washington doesn’t ease on him after he comes, just keeps pounding into him, relentless and unforgiving, making soft grunts of effort. Alex readjusts his grip the edge of the desk for dear life because his legs are getting dangerously close to giving out on him entirely.

Finally, Alex feels Washington’s hips stutter, hears him half-swallow back a groan, feels him twitch and shake on the apex of a particularly deep thrust. The man’s fingers dig into his hips hard enough to leave little crescent-shaped red marks there, and then they unlock themselves from his skin, which he’s only a little happy about.

Washington takes a step back and Alex feels desperately empty. He swallows back the whine that grows in his throat and concentrates on holding the desk because his legs feel like jello. He hears, rather than sees, the sound of the condom going in the office trash. Washington’s footsteps. Fabric sliding on fabric. A belt being buckled. Finally, not quite sure he’s not going to fall completely over, Alex stands up. The moment of danger passes. He studies his spattered come on the front of the desk with some disapproval before looking up as Washington, wearing his shirt and tucked in, dumps himself heavily into his office chair.

“That was a good meeting,” Alex says, and Washington snorts back a laugh.

“Here,” Washington says, and he opens a drawer and offers Alex a Clorox wipe or two. Alex swallows the indignity of cleaning up his own come - he’s not into it yet, but with practice he’s sure Washington could make him into anything - and tosses the dirty wipes in the garbage once it doesn’t look like he’s just been bent over and fucked to an inch of his life over the dark wood.

“Thanks,” he says, although he’s not sure what exactly he’s thanking Washington for.

Washington looks up and down his naked body once more, a little grin at the corner of his mouth. “You’re welcome,” he says, “Get dressed. I’ll drive you home.”

He was going to take the metro, but.

He could be into this.


End file.
